


Unfair

by RedTeamShark



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Author Chose Not To Tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2019-09-06 09:55:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16830298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedTeamShark/pseuds/RedTeamShark
Summary: Sometimes life just wasn’t fair. And sometimes what you wanted and what you needed was the same perfectly attainable thing.





	Unfair

**Author's Note:**

> Proper warnings, tags, etc, may come in the future. For the time being I'm frantically transferring my content to a stable platform amidst growing concerns about tumblr's inevitable implosion.
> 
> Apologies for flooding the fandom page.

“You know, Michael Jones,” he begins, taking another swig of the drink before him and falling back to splay on the couch, “I don’t think I remember what coke tastes like without rum in it anymore.”

Michael laughs, tipping the bottle up and adding a fair bit of rum to his glass of coke. “Same, Gavin,” he mumbles, holding on to the counter as he steps around it, falling next to his friend on the couch.

It’s a “boy’s night in” of sorts, pizza and bevs and video games, just the two of them at Michael’s apartment. It’s also been far too long since they last had an evening like this. “Geoff turned you into an alcoholic, and you turned me into one,” Michael continues, reaching past Gavin to snag the remote from the arm of the couch. He switches the television from the paused video game to the cable box, beginning to surf through channels. He gets two channels in before his attention is drawn away from the screen, diverted to the man next to him on the couch.

One arm is still around Gavin, holding the remote, the other hand busy holding his glass. He feels shifting weight beside him, which is the first thing to register to him. The next thing is Gavin’s warm, alcohol-scented breath washing over his face, the scrape of the man’s nearly-permanent beard stubble along his own smooth jaw, the feeling of lips at the corner of his mouth. He freezes, dropping the remote to the couch, his mind warring between the factions of “kiss him back” and “he’s drunk and doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Michael,” Gavin’s voice in his ear, lips ghosting against his flesh. “Michael Jones. Micoo ‘Rage Quit’ Jones, you are just too bloody handsome.” Slurred or not, the words go straight from his brain to his heart, making it speed up, pumping blood quickly to his cheeks. There’s a low chuckle, lips moving against his reddened cheekbones. “What if I fancied you, Michael?”

And when Michael turns, still not sure what he’ll say or do, he finds lips on his own. Slightly clumsy, enthusiastic lips, _Gavin Free’s_ lips and his kisses are like his personality all wrapped up into one moment. A warm hand settles on his burning cheek, gently guiding his head to tilt. He opens his own lips, reality coming crashing in the moment his tongue touches the Brit’s. He yanks away, seeing that look of hurt flash across Gavin’s face, wanting to lean in and kiss it away. Instead he presses a hand to the other man’s chest, shaking his head just slightly.

“Gavin, you… you’re drunk,” he manages, leaning forward and pressing his lips to the sandy-haired man’s forehead. “I am too. It wouldn’t be right to… to make a decision like this, okay?” By some miracle a hazed look of understand dawns in Gavin’s green eyes, and he nods.

“So when I’m sober and I still want in your trousers?” Gavin questions, sitting back and throwing back the remainder of his drink. Michael swallows, distracting himself with drinking his own beverage. How is he supposed to answer a question like _that_? The silence draws out between them, before Gavin gives a heavy sigh. “Would you sleep with me then?”

“Yes,” Michael responds without thinking, his eyes on his glass. “When we’re sober,” he clarifies, daring a glance towards Gavin, “then I will.”

Gavin grins, leaning forward and kissing him again, a gentle brush of lips on his cheek. “Alright,” he whispers, getting unsteadily to his feet and going to make himself another drink. “Want to put a movie on?”

They put a movie on, and they sit on the couch and watch the action on the screen. They drink and they laugh and they talk and Michael is a good distance towards convincing himself that Gavin was just messing with him, just talking out his ass and being drunk. There’s no way the Brit could be interested in him, Gavin has expressed his heterosexuality again and again and whatever happened earlier was just a fluke, just something that he wants but can never have, something that he’ll have to convince himself he doesn’t need.

They fall asleep on the couch and wake up on the floor some hours later, which isn’t exactly an unusual sensation. The pounding headache makes Michael cry out, grabbing his temples and scrambling for the blinds over the sliding glass door that leads to his porch. If he can just get it closed, maybe everything will be better.

Beside him, Gavin groans, before retching and stumbling to his feet, tripping his way into the bathroom. Michael lies on the floor, panting from the herculean effort of closing his window against the searing Texas sun, listening to his best friend vomit in the bathroom.

That’s about the time that he remembers Gavin wanted to sleep with him the night before. His heart seems to stutter in his chest, coming to a full stop before picking up at double-time. He rolls onto his back, throwing an arm across his eyes and trying to determine if last night really happened. All the internal conclusions point to yes.

Gavin stumbles back into the living room, falling onto the floor beside Michael with a _thump_ and a groan, one arm falling on the older man’s chest. “Frickin’ hell, my head…” he mutters, words muffled by the apartment’s carpeting.

Michael keeps his arm over his eyes, groaning softly. “Shuddup, Gavin.”

Another stretch of indeterminate hours finally finds the pair capable of moving from the positions stretched out on the floor. Michael sits up, carefully moving Gavin’s arm off his chest, looking towards the cable box for the time. It’s nearly three in the afternoon and he groans, forcing himself to stand and make some coffee. Gavin stumbles into the small kitchen behind him, arms going around his waist as the coffee brews, head resting on Michael’s shoulder. The curly-haired man forces himself to stay calm, reasons that Gavin’s always been this sort of affectionate. Besides, he’s making his famous ‘cure the hangover coffee.’ The Brit’s practically offered him blowjobs for it before.

It’s only when he feels hands gently tugging at the front of his pants that he lets his thoughts turn back to the previous evening. Before getting black-out drunk, they’d discussed it… Was this close enough to sober that Gavin was putting his offer back on the table?

Michael pushes his hands away gently, turning in Gavin’s embrace and leaning up just slightly, planting another kiss on his forehead. “Coffee first, dumbass,” he whispers, letting his lips be caught by the sleepy-eyed Brit’s mouth as he lowers back to the floor. His eyes widen when Gavin suddenly takes a step forward, effectively pinning him to the countertop, the taller man’s hands resting at either side of his hips. Lips move against his, an impatient tongue swiping against his mouth, demanding entrance. Michael shivers, arms wrapping up and around Gavin’s neck as his head tilts to the side, mouth falling open easily. There’s a small, intermingled groan as they taste each other (and it’s not all pleasure, they’ve both got a positively rank case of morning breath), before the coffee pot begins to click and gurgle beside them, done with its brewing process.

The curly-haired man forces himself to push the Brit away again, smiling slightly and running a hand down his chest. “Gavin…” he whispers, not sure where his thoughts are. He’s going in a million directions at once, wanting to say and do a billion different things, the primary thought in his mind that he wants to kiss Gavin again and never, ever stop.

“Michael.” The other man smiles, stroking a hand against his cheek. “Michael Jones. I’m sober and I still want to sleep with you, you beautiful bastard.” And Gavin leans in, his body pressed front-to-front with Michael’s, arms around him and holding him tight, breath warm against his ear as he whispers, “I want to sleep with you again and again… I never want to stop.”

He’s dreaming, he has to be. Drunken desires, that’s all this is. There’s no way that Gavin, wonderful perfect unattainable wanted-but-not-needed Gavin wants to sleep with him. But this dream is so _vivid_ , so fucking _real_ and it’s just not fair to him that he’s going to wake up soon with a name on his lips and an empty place in his heart. Michael wants to scream, to pound his fists against the other man’s chest and demand that he act like this in reality, that he be more than just wishful thinking. He wants to tear apart his imagined kitchen, kick down doors and set fire to everything in this dream, because it’s too real and it hurts too much to think about these things that he can never have.

Except there’s some speck of reality worming its way in, a look in Gavin’s eyes that would never be there in a dream. Hesitation is creeping into his green gaze, a little bit of hurt. His hands leave Michael’s sides, awkwardly fisting in the legs of his pants as he takes a step back. “You don’t want to, do you?” Gavin questions, teeth working over his lip and eyes riveted to the floor between his feet. “Last night, that was just the bevs talking and now I’ve made a right ass of myself. I’m sorry, Michael, I didn’t—“

Its Michael’s turn to step forward, to slam his lips into Gavin’s in a kiss that is by no means soft or romantic, a kiss that is fierce and passionate and demanding. It’s all things Michael Jones held in the moment that lips meet lips and he pulls away probably too soon, breathing hard and keeping his hands planted on Gavin’s cheeks, staring him down with an expression that’s almost _contempt_. “Shut up, idiot,” he whispers, giving Gavin’s head a slight shake, “just shut up and let’s fuck.”

The distance to the bedroom from the kitchen is short, but the path the pair take is a long, stumbling one, often stopping to pin each other to the wall, lips meeting with passion again and again. Michael loses his shirt before they even leave the kitchen, dropping it to the floor in front of the fridge when he pins Gavin against the black metal surface and lays fierce bites and kisses down the side of his neck. They stumble over each other in the hallway, almost falling; Michael’s back slams into the wall between his bedroom and bathroom doors. He scrambles to pull Gavin’s shirt off, the Brit taking a step back and yanking the fabric over his head, letting it drop to the floor behind him. Again their lips meet, hands running over newly exposed flesh, exploring in a way they have never before quite dared to.

Michael pushes himself off the wall, hips coming into contact with Gavin’s and drawing moans from both of them. He wraps his hand around Gavin’s wrist, pulling him into the bedroom, tripping over a pair of jeans he’d left on the floor previously and falling face-first onto his bed. Gavin’s thin chest is pressed to his back, warm and moving rapidly with his breathing, holding him down to the soft mattress as Gavin’s mouth moves along his shoulder in a series of wet kisses.

For the moment he’s content to relax into the feeling of Gavin’s mouth on his skin, shivers racing up and down his spine when one of Gavin’s hands runs down his side, the other finding his and locking their fingertips together. A moan leaves his lips when the Brit grinds his hips down against his ass, and he can almost _feel_ Gavin’s smirk against his skin, the action repeating. His hand clenches in the sheets below him, eyes squeezed shut, trying to pull in every millimeter of skin contact and save it in his mind forever.

Until the contact is gone, all but the fingers linked with his and he opens his eyes, ready to demand that Gavin never fucking stop, words dying on his lips at the unexpected proximity of the other man’s face with his. Gavin smiles, leaning in and planting a kiss on his lips, gentle and slow and adoring. “Michael. Michael Jones.” He whispers, sliding off him. Michael rolls onto his side, letting Gavin come chest to chest with him again, interlocked hands resting over their heads.

“Why do you say my name so much?” He questions softly, interrupted by brief kisses every other word or so.

Gavin shrugs, smiling widely and kissing him again. “I like the way it sounds,” he offers, free hand settling onto Michael’s hip. “You don’t like hearing me say it?” His sock-covered toe runs up Michael’s calf and the auburn-haired male shivers, making a mental note that it’s bullshit that such a simple gesture as that can turn his brain into soup.

“I love it,” he confesses in a mutter, soup-brain not quite able to stop the words from leaving his lips. “Even the dumb stuff you say is just… fuckin’ hot.”

And then its lips and hands wandering over each other’s bodies again, desperate and wanting, needing, finally having. Michael delves his hand into Gavin’s jeans, running over the front of his boxer briefs and seeking his cock. He finds his erection easily enough, stroking and squeezing him through the fabric, hearing Gavin’s moans, _feeling_ them with his lips against his throat. Gavin’s hands work at his own jeans, popping the button and pulling down the zipper, his hips lifting to impatiently push the denim away. He kicks them off, letting them fall from the bed, rolling onto his back and pulling Michael on top of him. His hands find the other man’s jeans, working at the button and zipper there frenetically, tugging and pushing until they’re down. Michael takes half a second of his attention away from Gavin, flushed and needing below him, to add his jeans to the pile of clothes on the floor before he’s back on the Brit, lips and teeth and roaming, exploring hands.

Their hips rock together, impatient and wanting-needing-having, desperate for the physical contact more than the sexual release in that moment. Gavin rakes his blunted nails up Michael’s back, neck arching to allow more access for the other man’s mouth on his skin. The room is full of the sounds of creaking bedsprings and frantic panting. When he’s pushed to, Michael lets himself be rolled over, legs wrapping around Gavin’s slim hips. His brown eyes are on the other man’s face over him, watching the pleasure cross his features as he rolls his hips down. He’s braced on his arms, grinding his hips into Michael’s with the kind of need that the auburn-haired man swore he was alone in feeling.

Michael’s arms shoot up as he feels himself approaching the edge, wrapping around Gavin’s shoulders and drawing him down, their lips meeting once again in a kiss that is everything the two of them are together—loud, passionate, messy, perfectly linked and in sync with each other. He moans into Gavin’s mouth, body tensed, every muscle seeming to lock up at once before letting go, turning him into a jittery mess. He keeps rolling his hips, riding out the orgasm, breathing hard and momentarily forgetting about the man above him. For just a moment the entire world is drowned out by his bliss, the only speck of reality the knowledge that this is happening with _Gavin_ , with the one person he’s always dreamt of it happening with.

Reality comes back with Gavin still over him, still breathing hard and urgently grinding into him. Michael’s tranquility melts into self-loathing as he realizes that he came without a second thought for the other man’s pleasure. But there’s still time to fix it.

He settles his hands on Gavin’s hips, stilling his movements and making him open his eyes. Michael offers a smile, carefully scooting backwards until he can prop himself up slightly on his headboard, pulling Gavin’s hips to get the other male to follow him. “Your turn,” he whispers, licking his lips and swallowing nervously. He slips his fingertips into Gavin’s shorts, pulling them down and freeing his erection from the confines of the fabric.

Sparing a final glance to Gavin’s face (locked somewhere between insatiable lust and comic, wide-eyed confusion), he dips his head forward, tongue darting over the exposed tip of Gavin’s cock. He grips the Brit’s hip with one hand to keep him from jerking forward, wrapping the other hand around his shaft and beginning to stroke him. He pulls the foreskin back to fully expose the head of his cock, taking it into his mouth and running his tongue along the slit.

“M-Michael!” Gavin shouts above him, one hand digging into his shoulder with bruising force. His hips rock minutely in Michael’s hand, just barely putting more of his length into the other man’s mouth. Michael swallows, stroking and squeezing his hard length. He’s just pursing his lips to begin sucking when Gavin cries out above him, semen flooding his mouth unheeded, making him gasp involuntarily. He jerks back, coughing slightly, hand automatically continuing to stroke even as warm jizz hits him in the face.

Gavin rides out his orgasm above him, head tipped back at an almost possible angle, mouth gaping but silent. He slumps bonelessly over Michael as he finishes, breathing hard. It’s an easy task to move him down to the bed, the two settling in, once again chest to chest. Michael wipes the semen from his face onto the sheets, pressing a much slower, lighter kiss to Gavin’s swollen lips.

He could complain about almost choking on the Brit’s jizz, but what’s the point? Next to him, the other man seems to be almost asleep, and he’s fast falling down that rabbit hole. Instead Michael wraps his arms around Gavin, pulling him closer and relaxing into his warmth.

What’s a little spunk in the lungs, when faced with the truth that what he knows he wants and thinks he needs is exactly what he has?


End file.
